


The Lonely Heart

by TheEagleGirl



Series: Westeros AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, AU Romance, Angst, Cersei Lannister is bitter but not so bitter, F/M, Jaime and Tyrion aren't alive here, Like dark chocolate, Robert's Rebellion, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:36:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cersei Lannister is the only child born to Tywin Lannister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea entered my head this morning (it's after midnight now, so I guess yesterday morning? IDK I've been working on this all day and I'm tired), and I told myself I wouldn't write it until I updated my other fic, Crumble into Me. I wrote the next chapter for that fic really quickly, and started on this one between my physics class and work. Seven hours later, I finished. This is the longest one-shot I've ever written, and it's also the fastest I've ever written. I couldn't believe the word counter. So this was a labor of love, and I really hope you all love my story as much as I do.
> 
> It's always seemed to me that most of Cersei's bitterness stemmed from Tyrion, and the fact that Tyrion had "killed" her mother, and that Jaime, as a boy, could do what she could not. I decided to take both Jaime and Tyrion away and see what kind of Cersei we had left. She's still proud, she's still smart, she's still beautiful, but the choices she makes, and what she wants in life, are vastly different now that there is no one else to contend with. I love the crazy, bitter, wine loving Cersei of the books, and I've included some hints of that woman in this story. Overall, though, Cersei remains a strong, unforgettable character.

The child was born to Tywin and Joanna Lannister in the middle of the night, into a mess of blood and her mother’s screams. While the babe was bundled off into a blanket and cleaned for her father, Joanna Lannister stayed on the birthing bed, sweating, bleeding and barely breathing. Hours later, even after Tywin had seen his firstborn, the midwives and the maester stayed locked into the dark room, fighting for their lady’s life.

The story never leaves out the part where Tywin Lannister is approached by the maester, in the dead of the night, and told that he can save the child’s life, but that his beloved wife Joanna will not survive it.

Tywin Lannister grips the maester’s shoulder and shakes him, “You will save my wife,” he says, and only his brother Kevan hears his voice shake. “You will save my wife, or there is no use for you.”

Kevan hands his niece to Gerion, and takes his brother by the shoulder. “Tywin,” he starts. “The babe may die. That may be your heir in there.”

Tywin’s face is as hard as the Rock, and when he speaks, so is his voice. “You will do as I say, maester, or you will find yourself another post.”

The maester bows, and scurries off.

At the end, though, it is all for naught. At the end, Joanna Lannister is too weak to even scream or cry, so it is the child that screams and cries as her wet nurse tries to feed her. Only when Joanna Lannister is dead does the maester open her stomach to see if the babe lives. In the end, they find a boy, the chord wrapped around his throat, his eyes green as his twin’s.

Kevan tries his best to keep his brother from the room, but in the end, he is no match for Tywin. His brother stares down at his wife’s body, then at the dead body of the child that would have been his heir.

“You will excuse me, I hope,” Tywin says, and all but flees the room.

When Kevan presses his ear to the door of Tywin’s chambers later that night, he hears a hoarse scream and a shattering sound. For a moment, he is merely relieved; his brother is taking out his anger, and soon he will come back to them. But the next morning, Tywin Lannister does not emerge from his room, and the child’s cries taunt Kevan all through the Rock. He writes to Tygett and tells him to come for the Rock. Their brother has need of his family now more than ever.

For a sennight, no one can get Tywin out of his room. Instead, Gerion sits vigil for Joanna. When he emerges, he corners Kevan.

“He’s not left his chambers?” Gerion rages, with all the might of a boy who is four and ten and does not understand the agony Tywin goes through, which Kevan tells him. But he cannot answer for Tywin when Gerion demands why Tywin has not yet come out to see the babe, nor name her.

The child’s wetnurse makes the mistake of rounding the corner, a bundle in her arms. She curtsies, wobbling a bit and says, “M’lords,” before starting to continue walking. But Gerion takes the babe from her quickly, and marches through the keep, trailing Kevan and the wetnurse Marya behind him as they protest. He makes for Tywin’s chambers and pounds a fist against it.

“Tywin!” he shouts, “Tywin, you craven fool, open your doors or I shall steal the Westerlands away from you!”

Kevan watches desperately and they all wait; the guards, Gerion, and Marya. There is no sound from inside, not until the babe starts to cry, awakened by the commotion. She screeches, her voice loud and high, and Gerion winces back when she hits a particularly high shriek.

They’re all so busy looking at the child that no one notices the sounds from within until the door swings open.

Tywin stands there, in all his glory, white faced and thinner, but no less imposing a figure. Kevan shrinks back, but Gerion stands tall, and nearly shoves the crying child at his brother. “By the gods, Tywin,” he says, tears in his voice. “You have not even named her. Yours and Joanna’s own daughter.”

Slowly, Tywin extends his arms and takes his daughter, and lowers his eyes to her. Kevan finds himself examining the child for the first time since he saw the twin strangled by his own umbilical cord. Her hair is such a fine gold that he can barely see it against her scalp. Her eyes, although not fully open all the time yet, are as green as Tywin’s and Joanna’s.

“We were to name a boy Jaime,” Tywin admits, the first time Kevan’s heard his voice since his shout a sennight ago. “And a girl—” he breaks off. His face hardens as he looks at his brothers. “Her name is Cersei. Cersei Lannister. One day, she will have everything I have to offer.”

 

* * *

 

Cersei has always caught herself looking over her shoulder, as if to shout something to someone right behind her. There is an empty space in her heart where Cersei was told her mother should have been; she knows it’s more than that. She’s never felt a yearning for her mother, not when she had her uncles Tygett, Kevan and Gerion about her all the time, not when her aunt Genna Frey wintered with them, not when her father placed his hand over hers as she learned to read, helping her to trace the letters. A longing for a friend, perhaps. Cersei had Melara Hetherspoon and Jeyne Farman to keep her company, but they were as stupid as babies sometimes. Melara was bold, at least, and it was Melara who got Cersei into trouble by dressing her like a squire and walking through the tourney grounds when Prince Rhaegar came to Lannisport for the tourney in his brother Viserys’s honor. They’d been trying to see Maggy the Frog when Jeyne’s shiftiness alerted the guards, who brought them straight back to Casterly Rock. All of Cersei’s wheedling had cemented the guard’s promises not to tell her father. Melara and Jeyne kept her busy.

It was more than that, though. The profound sense of loneliness haunted Cersei some days, and she spent those days in bed, tears in her eyes, hands clutched against her heart. Perhaps if she’d had a sister, things would have been better. Cersei often pictured someone who looked just like her, a twin, maybe, who played with her and kissed her cheeks.

Today, though, she was in high spirits. Today she was going to watch the lists.

Prince Rhaegar was beautiful, and Cersei had told Melara so. Melara pretended to smile at her, but her eyes had been full of jealousy. “I’m going to be Queen, father says so,” Cersei had whispered, and Melara has hugged her and gushed at her, but her eyes had always told Cersei the truth, so she watched them and not her smile.

The crown prince _was_ beautiful, and Cersei imagined having to lay with him the way Melara and Jeyne had told her a woman lays with a man. Cersei was only ten, but it seemed a little unpleasant to her. Perhaps when Prince Rhaegar lay with her he would be soft and nice to feel. His hair was almost as long as hers, and even as he tucked his helmet over it, a few silver strands peaked through. When Rhaegar faced her uncle Tygett in the field, Cersei did not know who to cheer for; her uncle or the man that would soon be her betrothed. Instead, she did nothing, and watched with her heart in her throat as Rhaegar unhorsed her uncle Tygett, then Gerion, twelve knights of her father’s house, and finally Ser Barristan Selmy. He himself was soon unhorsed by Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, but it did not matter to Cersei. Her eyes shone only for the Prince, and later that night, he played the harp so sweetly her eyes shone with tears as well. Cersei goes to her rooms giggling with her companions, so happy that she does not realize her father is waiting for her until she Melara pinches her.

“Father?” Cersei looks up at him, mouth open to tell him of all the wonderful things she’d _seen_ , and how she wants to go to a tourney every year, for however long summer lasted. But his expression, although still, stopped her.

 _Something is wrong_ , she thinks. _What’s wrong?_

“Cersei,” her father says, his voice quiet, “dismiss your ladies. We must speak.”

Cersei did not want to dismiss her ladies. Cersei did not want to speak. But she found herself speaking the words. “Melara, Jeyne, I shall see you on the morrow,” she says, her voice too formal.

 _What is wrong?_ she wonders. _Look at his eyes._ But there is nothing in his eyes to see. Her father is a better liar than Melara.

They make way to her father’s solar. Once there, he sits, his back rigid and his face even, hands on his desk. There is a tremble in them, for less than a moment, and Cersei sees him grind his jaw.

Lord Tywin has called his brothers to him, and standing together, Cersei can see the resemblance between the four of them. His sister Genna was the last to enter.

“The King,” Lord Tywin begins, his voice almost mild, “has seen it fit to dismiss my offer of Cersei’s hand.”

There is a stillness in the room as they all process what has been said. Cersei can feel a knot rising in her throat, and a familiar pain in her chest. She wishes for someone to come to her and squeeze her hand, but when her aunt Genna does so, Cersei finds herself thinking that this was the _wrong_ someone. She wanted…she needed…

No one. Cersei reminded herself that a Lannister of Casterly Rock needed no one.

“Has he given a reason?” her uncle Kevan asks, his eyes dark.

Tywin raises a brow, “I believe that what he said was, ‘You are my most able servant, Tywin, but a man does not marry his heir to his servant’s daughter.’ He _forgets_ ,” Cersei’s father says, and it’s only his clenched fists that give away his anger, “that I am no mere servant, but the Warden of the West and the Lord of the Westerlands and Casterly Rock. There is no family better suited for him to marry his son into, nor will there be better offers.”

“He insults us,” Gerion spits, “And for what? Pride?”

“Madness,” Tygett whispers. “Tywin, you must not go back to King’s Landing with the royal party. Aerys has always been envious of you, envious of your power over the realm. And now he insults our family like this? I like it not.”

“I thought,” Tywin says acidly, “that for the love he says he bore Joanna that he would consider uniting our houses with our children. I told him so myself, and he just laughed and said I should get another wife, and that Joanna no longer plagued his thoughts.”

Tywin looks around at his siblings, and then he turns his eyes to Cersei. She struggles to keep from crying. She had been so _close_ , just this morning she’d told Melara she was going to be a Queen.

“Cersei,” her father says. “Come here, child.”

Cersei walks on wobbly legs towards her father. During the nine steps it takes to get to his chair, she straightens her back and holds her chin high. She was a _lion_ , by the seven. She was not going to cry. She was going to stand tall.

Her efforts are monumental, but she is rewarded when her father’s eyes meet hers and he softens. He pulls at her hand and seats her on his lap, even though he hasn’t done so since she had been five. “This failing is not yours, Cersei. Remember that. The blame for this lies with the King. Do not worry. You may still be Queen yet. I will go back to King’s Landing, and appeal to the king to change his mind.”

Cersei nods her head mutely. After a moment, she manages to ask, “May I be excused Father? I am very tired.”

Surprising her, Tywin kisses Cersei’s cheek tenderly. “Aye, Cersei. Sleep well. Gerion, please escort my daughter to her bed.”

After listening to Gerion’s angry rants on the way back to her room, Cersei undresses and dismisses her maids as fast as she can, forgoing her usual practice of brushing her long hair, and all but runs to her bed. Furiously, she wipes at the tears which have yet to fall, but she _knows_ are there. _I am a lion_ , she tells herself, _he means nothing to me._

As she struggles into sleep, Cersei imagines a small hand, the same size as hers, stroking her hair and holding her trembling shoulders as they shake. There is no one there when she opens her eyes, but she longs for the comfort all the same.

 _I am a lion of the Rock,_ is the thought that carries her into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Eddard Stark is the second son of the Lord of Winterfell, and has no political advantage when it comes to Cersei, but she finds herself watching him all the same. His brother Brandon Stark was loud and wild and full of laughter, but that reminded Cersei too much of her father’s guardsmen when they were drunk. Lyanna and Benjen Stark were of an age with Cersei, but when she’s made any sort of overture to the Stark girl, Cersei had found a wall of ice surrounding her, and let the girl keep her peace, and where Lyanna Stark went, Benjen Stark followed.

Eddard Stark, though, seems too quiet for the company he keeps. He watches everything around him with an eerily silent intensity that reminds Cersei a bit of her own father, but when his brothers tease him, Eddard goes red, unlike Lord Tywin, who either ignores the jesting or puts a definitive stop to it. Cersei likes that Eddard blushes, and then blushes herself for thinking of the second son of any lord in such a manner. Her father still refuses to admit his failing in making Cersei Queen, and has turned down every quest for her hand. When Cersei broached the topic to him, saying that Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell, and that there was no chance of marriage with him, her father had pressed his lips together and merely said, “Viserys, then.”

Eddard Stark, as if feeling Cersei’s eyes, looks up suddenly, and meets her gaze. Caught, Cersei smiles at him slightly, watching his face redden and feeling oddly pleased that she’s put that blush on his face. He holds her eyes, surprisingly, and gives her a respectful nod before turning back to Robert Baratheon, who is guffawing at something Lyanna Stark has said. Cersei feels oddly stung that Eddard has turned away, but tells herself it is for the best; her father would not like to hear that she made eyes at the younger son of Lord Stark.

She watches only for a moment longer, as Lyanna Stark looks away angrily from Robert Baratheon, who has not noticed. Then, one of her ladies calls to her, and Eddard Stark’s solemn face and his sister’s angry one are forgotten for the nonce.

At least, they are forgotten until the feast that night. Harrenhall, though imposing and monstrous by day, is thrown into an even darker light by night, and even Cersei is frightened by the sounds and shadows down every corridor, suddenly thankful that the Lannister party sleeps outside the castle in their beautiful tents. Rhaegar Targaryen, who Cersei has not seen since she was ten, eats with his wife, Elia, who is big with child. Robert Baratheon is desperately trying to hold Lyanna Stark’s attention, and Brandon Stark makes a fool out of himself over the Lady Ashara. Many men and more have turned their gazes to Cersei herself, who knows how beautiful she has grown to be. She spends all the evening twirling and dancing and laughing. Once or twice, she thinks she feels Eddard Stark’s gaze, but whenever she sees him, he is frowning into his cup.

Her father’s disapproval is clear to Cersei, whether it be at the King, or the Prince, or at Cersei herself she could not say. He makes no move to stop her dancing, though, and none when she takes another cup of wine for herself, one more than he usually allows. Cersei’s head is in the clouds with the magic of the night, made only better when she finally succeeds in catching Eddard Stark in her gaze once more.

To Cersei’s surprise, she can feel her cheeks heat up, and blames it on the wine. She focuses on daring him with her eyes. _Come to me_ , she wants to say. _Dance with me, smile at me._

This time, someone does notice their eyes locked together. It is not Cersei’s father, thank the Gods, but Brandon Stark on one of his rare forays back to his own table. Brandon looks confusedly between Cersei and Eddard, and breaks into a grin. Cersei forces herself to look away.

When she looks back up, this time, and Eddard is no longer at his table, Cersei feels something akin to dismay creep into her heart. It is not that she had thought anything would happen, she admits, just that it may have been fun to flirt and laugh with someone interesting. She turns back to her ladies, only to swirl back around at the sound of a voice saying, “My Lady of Lannister, if I may ask for an introduction?”

It is Brandon Stark, his eyes laughing at his brother’s discomfort. For his part, Eddard Stark stands tall, head held high, refusing to be shamed by his brother’s actions.

Cersei smooths the surprise off her face. “You may ask, my lord,” she says prettily, “if you introduce me to yourself and your brother.”

Brandon Stark’s grin widens, “Then I shall, my lady. I am Brandon Stark, future Lord of Winterfell. This is my younger brother and ward to Lord Arryn, Eddard Stark.”

Cersei offers her hand to Brandon Stark, who kisses it, then turns to Eddard.

“Pleasure to meet you, my lords,” she says, and smiles sweetly and Eddard when he straightens up. His smile is slow to return, but in the end it changes his face. Gone is the solemn second son, and suddenly Cersei can see why Robert Baratheon of all people seeks him out so often.

“Are you enjoying Harrenhall, Lady Cersei?” he asks quietly.

Cersei nods, and too late remembers that her fingers are still tangled within his long ones. Blushing, she pulls them out. “Yes. I understand now why so many songs are sung of this place. There seems to be a ghost round every corner.”

Lord Brandon scoffs at that, but Eddard nods solemnly. “Aye,” he says. “A man gets a feeling in a place like this…bad things wait in Harren’s hall.”

“Good things too, I hope,” Cersei says seriously, and her voice sounds small and hopeful and pathetic, like a child’s.

Eddard Stark meets her eyes and gives her a flash of his white teeth. “Yes. Good things too.”

Cersei nearly shivers at the intensity of his gaze. _He’s trying to tell me something_ , she thinks, _but Gods, I don’t know what_. So, instead of wondering, she sends the brothers a wicked smile. “So which of you two will ask me to dance? A lady can only stay still for so long.”

For a moment, Brandon looks like he will take Cersei’s hand, just to torture his brother some more. But Cersei turns to Eddard and waits.

“My lady,” he intones, barely loud enough to be heard over the din in the hall. “Would you dance with me?”

In answer, Cersei places her hand in his.

Eddard Stark is a fair dancer, she finds. Not nearly as good on his feet as Ser Arthur Dayne, who’d been so graceful Cersei had to force herself not to feel as clumsy as a newborn cat. Certainly not as bad as Ser Addam Marbrand, who’d stepped on half of Cersei’s toes until she’d extricated herself politely. Lord Eddard did not step on her toes, he did not leave her feeling an oaf, and he spoke to her as they danced, which Ser Arthur had not done, and Addam’s attempt had gone ignored.

When the song ends, Cersei clutches his hand a bit tighter and says, “One more dance, my lord. I do not wish to sit yet.”

Eddard nods, his smile soft, “Of course. Although,” he says, “your father does not look happy with me.”

Cersei brushes her fingers against his shoulder, feeling the scratch of the embroidery, the teeth of a grey wolf stitched into the doublet. “He never does look happy,” she confesses. “Everyone says his smile died with my mother.”

Cersei dances with Eddard twice more that night, and asks her aunt Genna to keep her father’s eye off her for a few turns on the floor. They hover near one another even when they do not dance, always a respectable distance away, but enough so that they are speaking to the same people for much of the time. Cersei is near him and his siblings when Rhaegar picks up his harp and announces that he would sing a song before the night’s end.

He sits on the dais, tunes his harp, and Cersei looks around quickly to see that all eyes are on Rhaegar. When the first chord sounds through the hall, Cersei knows. This is the song that brought her to tears as a child. Jenny’s song, he’d called it.

She refuses to cry now. Cersei is many things, and proud is one. She will not cry. She has not cried since she was ten years old. She knows that the day may come that she sheds a tear again, but she is determined that she will not shed any for Rhaegar.

The song is sad, though, and when she turns to look at Eddard quickly, she finds him staring at his sister. Lyanna Stark, the strange, cold girl who’d refused Cersei’s overtures of friendship, weeps silently, her face still but for the tears coursing down her cheeks. From the back, no one would be able to tell that she cries, and for a moment, Cersei sees how pretty the girl could be, if she wished to. There is a regality, a refinement to her long face, her narrow brow and nose.

“Lya,” she hears Eddard whisper. “Are you well?”

She shoves at him angrily. “Fine, Ned. Leave me be,” she says, and turns back to listen to Rhaegar, paying no heed to the tears still on her cheeks.

 _Ned_ , Cersei realizes. It’s what his brothers and sister call Eddard. _Perhaps he would ask me to call him Ned._

The mood in the hall is melancholy after Rhaegar’s song, and Cersei slips away as the crowd empties out. She’s taken Jeyne with her, but Jeyne is so besotted with Addam Marbrand she hardly notices that Cersei is being escorted by Eddard Stark, holding tightly to his elbow. When they are outside, she pulls him away from the people and down one of Harrenhall’s long corridors. It is in the shadows of Harrenhall, in view of all the ghosts who would wish to see, that Cersei Lannister allows Eddard Stark to kiss her. His lips are soft and unsure, but to Cersei it is a taste of the summer to come, or the wine she’s drunk, or a taste of what she cannot have. It doesn’t matter to her in the moment, with his arms on her waist and his lips at hers and his hair—shorter than most lords kept theirs, and so _soft_ —under her fingers.

“Eddard?” she whispers, when they break for air, her voice catching when she sees, _Gods,_ the way he _looks_ at her. “Might I call you Ned?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he whispers.

They right themselves as best as they can, and Cersei feels the smile tugging at her face every time she looks at him. He’s no better, and they have to forcibly drag themselves from their hiding spot. “Shall we see each other tomorrow?” he asks, and Cersei nods.

“I will watch the lists,” she declares. “Do you joust?”

“Not in tourneys,” he says. “Northmen don’t want people to know what they can do once we do meet on the field.” He sounds so serious that Cersei giggles, and kisses his jaw once, twice, before rejoining Jeyne, who is too drunk to have even noticed she was gone.

When they enter the Lannister camp, Cersei sees her father watching her. Her aunt Genna loops her arms in Cersei’s, and sighs. “Cersei, darling, if only you had chosen the _elder_ brother…”

“Does he know?” Cersei suddenly feels it, the acute loneliness that she thought Ned had chased away.

“Gods, no.” Genna laughs, “My brother thinks you’ve avoided him because you’re sulking that Princess Elia is here.”

Cersei laughs, and it’s a freer sound than she remembers making in a long while.

There is an anticipation in her chest when she rises the next day. The lists have always been her favorite, and she knows that with half the Kingsguard competing, it is bound to be a show.

Interestingly enough, the first and second days did hold some surprises. A mystery knight with a laughing weirwood tree on his shield made an appearance, unhorsing three squires and disappearing just as quickly. Ser Barristan’s jousts were the best of the day. Prince Rhaegar was like a dragon reborn, tearing through the lists like a madman.

Cersei shared many glances with Ned, and each time she feared her father’s disapproval, and each time she looked back again, only to see him staring at her with a cold intensity that made her shiver.

Those two night, she begged Jeyne to pretend she had the woman’s sickness and must stay in her tent. Jeyne looked so surprised when Cersei asked, especially since she gave no explanations. Finally, she acquiesced, so long as Cersei gave Addam Jeyne’s favor for the melees, since Jeyne was too painfully afraid of rejection.

Cersei dressed in her darkest, plainest wool gown, hid her hair behind a cloth, and pulled on the black cloak she’d stolen from her maid at Casterly Rock.

 _Meet me in the godswood,_ she’s whispered to Ned, in the few seconds that they’d been allowed to speak. _Tonight._

He is already there when she comes, the starlight reflecting in his eyes when he sees her. “My Lady,” he says, his lips quirking. “I hardly knew you.”

He did, though. She’d walked past her own uncle Kevan on her way here, her throat clogged with icy fear, but he’d barely spared a glance.

She slides up to him, twines her fingers in his. “You look beautiful,” he says, and she knows he tells the truth, even if she wears no jewels.

“Hush, you,” she scolds him, “you make me blush.”

He dips his head and kisses her, deeply. Cersei is suddenly struck with a feeling; something bad will happen tomorrow. She tries to pull away to tell him so when his tongue touches hers, and from then it is a blissful slide into thoughtlessness. When they pull away, she is breathing hard, a hitch in her throat.

“Ned,” she breathes, “kiss me again.”

He is all too happy to oblige, and Cersei feels her heart sinking. Grabbing his cloak, she kisses him with desperation. They are two dark figures, in the shadow of a white tree, clutching at each other in the night.

“Cersei,” he begins when they are finished kissing; they sit between two of the weirwood’s roots, huddled together. “If I asked your father…”

She traces his jaw with a finger. “He would say no,” she admits; the bitterness of her words betray her.

“I am not Brandon,” Ned sighs.

“You are not,” Cersei agrees. “I will speak to him about it,” she promises. “Ned, believe me, I will.”

“May I write you?” he asks. “When the tourney is finished. I’d like to write you.”

“Yes,” she breathes.

She raises the question to Lord Kevan the next day. “Father insists that I am his heir,” she tells him, “and that he will take no other wife but my mother Joanna. Yet he wishes to ship me off to some distant realm with the son of some great lord. How can I inherit the Rock if I am chained to Highgarden or Winterfell or Dorne or the Eyrie?”

“Your father knows what he is doing,” Kevan reminds her, gently.

She shakes her head, “I want to be lady of the Rock,” she tells him. “I don’t want to live outside Casterly Rock. Why not marry me to a second son of a great lord? We retain the ties, and I remain in the Westerlands.”

“I am not blind, Cersei,” Kevan tells her. “I’ve seen you dancing with Lord Eddard.” Her face nearly falls, but she wills herself to give nothing away. _I am a lion of the rock_ , she whispers to herself. “It’s not a half-bad idea,” he admits to her. “But put it out of your mind, child. Lord Tywin has plans for you that do not include a second son.”

Cersei is angry. She has scarcely felt this kind of rage before. Her chest feels white hot and she wants to rail against the world, to run to Ned, to turn around to the shadow that has followed her since birth and tell it…what, exactly? That she’s fallen into her own trap? That she _knew_ nothing could happen, and silly, stupid girl that she was, she ignored it all?

She pulls herself together; she feels like a frayed rope that is coming undone. “Fine,” she says, icy cold. “I will take this into mine own hands, uncle. Good day.”

She wonders what would happen if she told Ned to take her, right now, maybe even under the weirwood so that his gods could witness their union. He would refuse, gently, but it is still a refusal. He’s too damn honorable for that. She likes that about him. She could grow to love that about him. Cersei thinks about a man like Robert Baratheon, a first son, the kind of man her father would marry her to before even _considering_ Ned Stark. She could not grow to love him, she is certain.

Ned _listens_ to her.

Robert Baratheon does not seem like the kind of man to listen to her. His voice is too loud.

 _I will speak to Father_ , she resolves, forcing the fire in her chest to cool. _I will get Gerion and Genna, he will heed them. Tygett as well. So what if Kevan will not help? I am a lion too. My claws can reach just as far. They are just as sharp._

And so she walks, calmer, to watch the jousts.

When Prince Rhaegar unseats Ser Barristan, there is so much merriment and laughter that Cersei laughs and smiles as well. The prince tosses off his helmet, his silky hair streaming in the wind, as he picks up a crown of winter roses. Cersei’s eyes seek out Princess Elia, who smiles as her husband rides down the field.

Her smile remains frozen on her face as he rides past.

The field is silent, now. The laughter has drained out of all the faces, and Cersei meets Ned’s eyes for a split second, if only to see that he is thinking the same as her. _Who will he crown_? She wonders.

The seconds seem to stretch out once the Prince does stop, right in front of the Starks. _Does he mean to crown Brandon?_ is Cersei’s wild thought before she sees that there is one woman in the box, wearing the same muted colors as the rest of the men.

Lyanna Stark.

The Lady Lyanna does not look happy. In fact, she doesn’t move, so Rhaegar has to lean over the side of the box and place the crown on her head. He whispers something to her before he rides off the field, leaving silence in his wake.

It is Robert Baratheon who breaks it, “What is this, Lya?” he booms. “What is going on?”

Lyanna doesn’t answer, just twists her hands in her lap, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

The Starks leave Harrenhall as quickly as the howling winter winds start to reappear. Their year of spring was naught but a false promise on their lips. Ned presses a letter into Cersei’s hand just as he is whisked off by his brother Brandon. “Read it when you are alone,” are their parting words, no kisses while her father watched.

 _I will not cry_ , Cersei says. _I will not cry._

It looks like Lyanna Stark is telling herself the same thing, when Cersei sees her last, sitting like a man on her gray horse. Cersei meets her eye, and although there is no love between them, she nods at Lyanna, a gesture of respect. Lyanna looks unsure, but returns the nod, straightens her back and rides off like a man to battle.

Elia Martell, when Cersei sees her, looks angry as well. The Prince, sitting beside her, sits tall, no apology in his eyes.

Cersei’s glad Aerys said no to their match.

They set off on the road two days after the Starks leave, and this time Tywin goes home with them, having quit himself of Aerys and King’s Landing. It is then that Cersei reads the letter.

_Dearest Cersei,_

_I’m off to the Eyrie. I’m sorry that we couldn’t say a better goodbye. I’m so sorry that we couldn’t resolve things, and that I was unable to ask your father for your hand. Even if he’d refused, at least I would be able to try and change his mind. From miles away, all I can do is hope the next I see you, it will not be too late._

_Please understand, and please write me when you can._

_My thoughts and prayers are with you,_

_Eddard Stark of Winterfell._

Cersei has to remind herself that lions do not cry.

 

* * *

 

“Brandon Stark and his father have been arrested for treason, or so Grand Maester Pycell says,” her father remarks. “It seems Prince Rhaegar has taken the Lady Lyanna on the way to her brother’s wedding.”

Cersei nearly drops the letter she’s been hiding under her sleeve. She’s gotten one every moon, and this is her sixth. “Brandon Stark?” she says, “What does the King mean to do?”

“Start a war, it seems,” her father replies. “Kevan, what is his plan for them? Stark has committed no real treason.”

“It says here he was calling for the Prince’s blood for stealing away his sister.”

“Aye,” her father agrees, “but what of Lord Rickard? Why has he been arrested?”

Kevan glances at Cersei, before allowing, “No one knows the King’s mind but the King himself, Tywin. It may be that his madness has taken him over.”

Her father murmurs so lowly that Cersei can barely hear him, “He cannot execute Lord Rickard. He holds the North. There would be war.”

But execute Lord Rickard he did. They receive a raven from Pycell not three days later, telling them of the awful deaths of Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark, and that Lords Robert Baratheon and the new Lord Stark have been called down to Kings Landing.

Cersei goes cold at that. “They won’t go, will they?” she whispers.

Her father barely looks at her, “Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark hold two great armies between them. Lord Arryn has a third, and he loves them well. They will go to war before they go willing into the arms of the King.”

“And what will we do?” Kevan asks. “We’ve no skin in this game, Tywin. We can sit this out.”

“You don’t know the Baratheon boy, Kevan. If he wins, will he look kindly on us to see that we did not come to his aid?” Tywin looks into the fire, his hair golden in the light. “We must know who will win, first.”

But times of war are times of doubt, and the reports that made their way to Lannisport were sometimes wild, if not completely false. One woman swore that Rhaegar had hatched a dragon and ridden it into battle, a sellsword swore that Robert Baratheon was big as a giant, undefeatable, and bathed in the blood of his enemies. They all agreed on one thing, though; this war was fought over the Lady Lyanna.

 _That is a small way to look at it,_ Cersei thinks. She may be a motivation for both sides, but it’s not fair to say that they fought only for Lyanna. Ned and Robert fought to survive, elsewise the King would kill them both.

Soon, even through the haze of war, it became clear that the rebel’s armies were making for the Riverlands. Riverrun, specifically.

 _He goes to wed his brother’s betrothed_ , Cersei realized. _To gain an alliance with the River Lords._ It was a good plan, she admitted to herself once she’d thrown her chalice at her bedroom walls, watched the wine spill out and stain the ground red. Her father would likely have done the same if it was him in Lord Eddard’s place.

What does she care, if Ned finds his way beneath Catelyn Tully’s skirts. He was an impossible dream, Cersei reminds herself. _He’s the second son,_ she scolds herself, before remembering that with Brandon dead, Ned is lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Even worse, now. Everyone wants a piece of the heir, Cersei tells herself. He is no longer just for her.

She tries to burn his letters, the six he’s sent by raven and the one he’d written for her as he left Harrenhall. She takes the letters to the hearth, and tries to toss them in, only to be struck with the image of Ned, surrounded by shouting Northmen, feverishly packing their belongings up so they could leave the accursed castle before sundown, taking a moment to sit down in the middle of all the chaos, to pen a note to her _explaining himself,_ of all things. As if Cersei would not have understood if he’d just disappeared with the rest of the Northern party.

She can’t burn the letters, she realizes. She treasures them too much. How many nights has she lain awake since this all started, wishing for a raven to arrive any day with words written in Ned’s hand? How many nights had she thought of their kisses and hungered for him besides her? It was not just a hole in her heart now. There was a hole in her very soul, and she wanted it back, she wanted back the man who held her in his hands and thought her precious.

Cersei does not allow herself to mourn her loss. Ned was never truly hers, after all, and he was never going to be. Her father would not have allowed it. To strengthen her resolve, she asks her aunt Genna to accompany her to the bowels of the rock to visit the lions residing there. Genna asks no questions, just watches Cersei sadly, pityingly. Cersei says nothing to her, but watches the lions, their cubs. They are proud, just as she is, and they too are trapped here. Cersei feels a kinship with them.

 _I cannot wish Catelyn Tully a good marriage_ , she prays, although here in the bowels of the Rock, she does not think the seven can hear her. _But I can wish Ned a good life. Let him live, you old gods, or you’re no good at all._

With that, Cersei ascends the stairs in a flurry of skirts.

She throws herself into managing the household. With no wife, Tywin has relied heavily on his brother Kevan and Genna, when she wintered with them, and the steward. Cersei takes all their duties and more, running her changes through the keep with a fury that leaves no time for her to think. She arranges the bannermen that petition her father, she coordinates meals and schedules and wages. She even disciplines her uncle’s son Lancel when he is caught stealing cakes from the kitchens. She must be a fright, she thinks while she lectures him, dragging a two year old child through the keep to find his nurse. Lancel, for his part, doesn’t cry, just listens with wide eyes until Cersei finishes, then asks for his cake back. Cersei sighs and hands him to his keeper.

“You’re to _watch_ him,” she says scathingly, “not raise a thieving rascal.”

Her father, for once, is showing gratitude. He calls her to his solar one night, and it is just the two of them. Cersei cannot remember the last time she’s been alone with her father.

“You’re doing well,” he says. “The cooks come to me screaming for your blood and the master-at-arms has politely told me you’ve destroyed his life, but the keep is running smoothly. I’d like for that to continue.”

“Yes, father,” Cersei says, a bit puzzled. “I’ve not planned on stopping.”

“Good,” her father says. “Because I’ve agreed to host an envoy from the rebel camp. Lord Stark comes to treat with me.”

Lord Stark? It takes Cersei a moment, in her exhausted mind, to remember that Ned is now Lord Stark.

He looks Cersei in the eyes. “You will not disappoint me, I hope. No distractions, Cersei. Stay out of the war counsel when I hold it. No gossiping with the maids. I will decide what I see fit to tell you.”

“Yes, father,” Cersei says, faintly. “May I go?”

“Yes,” Lord Tywin says, waving his hand. “You may.”

When Cersei wished Ned Stark a happy life, it was with the thought that she’d never have to _see_ him living out that happy life.

“I can’t bear it,” Cersei whispers, after Jeyne has fallen asleep besides her. The night is cold, and Jeyne has always been warm, what with her extra insulation. “I can’t bear it. Please, no. I’m not strong enough.”

She cries that night, for the first time in years. She cries for what she’s lost, and what she may have had if she’d only grabbed him when she had the chance.

 _I am a lion of the rock_ , she thinks, but suddenly, all she sees are the sad, broken lions beneath her very bed. _I am a lion of the rock_ , she insists, but the voice in her head sounds like it’s begging, so she wipes her eyes, and goes to sleep.

It’s been more than a year since they’ve met. Cersei was nearly sixteen then, with the blooms of spring in her hair, dancing with the freedom of summer, weaving between the lords and knights of the kingdom, listening to the chirping of birds and kissing the man who would be her lover beneath the stars. She is seventeen now, bundled in the weights of winter, shackled with reality, and far too young for how old she feels.

She watches from the top of the battlements. She’s taken off her hood, and her hair whips through the air with the icy winds full of snow. She may have imagined it, but she thinks Ned raises his eyes to look for her, thinks that he slumps with relief when he sees the banner of her hair high above him. Or is it with regret? She is too far to tell.

The envoys immediately lock themselves into a room with her father, Kevan, the maester, and her uncle Tygett. Gerion is conspicuously absent, sleeping off the headache from a late night with Briony, his whore.

It is near dusk that the men emerge, and by then Cersei has already gotten the keep back into the order it had fallen out of with the chaos of the envoy’s arrival, and waits in the great hall for her father’s guests with a feast. She’s seated herself seven seats from Ned, with both her father and her uncle Kevan between them.

Whether the men have reached an arrangement, Cersei does not know. It seems as though Ned has gotten better at hiding the truth in his eyes as well. Not that she watches him for long. It hurts to look at him and see how far he’s become.

Cersei waits for all the men to leave the hall before she orders the servants to clear up. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow may be even longer. She must sleep.

When she opens the door to her chambers, though, it is not Jeyne nor her maids that wait for her. It is her aunt Genna, and Ned Stark himself, seated in the little chair she sits in to write her letters. She chokes in the doorway, her eyes darting between the two of them. Had Genna caught him on the way here? Were they discovered? Gods damn her, there _was_ nothing to discover.

“Peace, Cersei,” Genna says, and dusts off her skirts as she stands. “I brought him here. I’ll be outside. You, my lord, will not be staying the night.”

“I did not intend to,” Ned says, but he looks straight at Cersei with his stormy eyes.

The door closes softly behind Genna, and they are alone.

She _will not_ be the first to speak. She _will not._

“Ned,” she chokes out. “Oh, Ned. I’m so sorry for your brother and sister.”

His jaw is tight, and she sees him blink, very quickly. There is a smile on his face as he says, “Lyanna is not lost to me yet, my lady. I mean to get her back home safely.”

Cersei nods, and curses herself for caving in. She’s a _lion_ , by the seven, not some green girl who cries over a sweet face.

Oh, but what a sweet sight he is.

Still, Cersei hardens her heart. “I suppose I am to congratulate you, then. On your marriage.”

Ned says nothing. His face could be made of ice for all it gives away. Cersei tries not to feel hurt, but it stings nonetheless.

“I hear she is beautiful,” Cersei continues, “and red haired. I hope you have many red haired children.”

Why won’t he speak, damn him?

“I hope,” Cersei continues, and she can’t stop herself, “that she keeps you warm during your Northern winters. I hear they are cold.” She nearly winces. _Of course winter is cold, you fool_.

Ned nearly smiles at that. She can see the twitch on one side of his face. She’s kissed that smile before.

“Gods,” she huffs, angry, “Get out, Ned, if you aren’t going to say anything.”

“I never married Catelyn Tully,” he blurts out. “I never did. I’m not married to her. Or anyone.” He swallows and shakes his head. “I’m unmarried.” In a smaller voice, he says, “Don’t tell me to leave, please, Cersei.”

“You didn’t-” Cersei doesn’t understand, and she tells him so. “The Riverlands, they _fight_ with you. How did you get them if not by marriage?”

“There was a marriage,” Ned insists, “but not mine. Jon Arryn, he married Lysa Tully. Cersei, I refused to marry her, I told Robert instead that I’d get him Lord Tywin and the Westerlands.”

“Get him-” suddenly Cersei understands, and her voice is tiny when she says, “You’re asking my father for my hand.”

“Only if you agree,” Ned says. “I won’t force you. I would never force you into anything,” he finishes bitterly, and Cersei knows he’s thinking about Rhaegar taking his sister.

“Do you want me?” Cersei asks, “Truly? Not just the soldiers of the Westerlands.”

“Cersei,” Ned begins, crossing to her gathering her hands into his own. “Cersei, I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I saw you at Harrenhall. Gods, I thought I seemed a desperate green boy every time I wrote you. I wanted to ride here and meet your father each time I woke up, and by the time the sun fell I convinced myself not to, that I did you no favors, and that your life would be too precious to give up on a second son of Winterfell.”

Cersei can’t breathe, she can’t, she just grabs desperately at his hands, and pulls him close to her, wrapping herself in his arms. They stay there, swaying, breathing one another in. Ned looks harder than when she saw him last, and under his jerkin, his body is unyielding and firmer than their last embrace. The price of war, Cersei thinks, when she looks at his face again.

“Father may not agree. He still wants me to be Queen.”

“Robert wants my sister. Once we get her back, she will be Queen. Your father knows this.”

“He doesn’t believe she will live that long,” Cersei admits.

“She must,” Ned whispers. “She and Benjen and I are all that’s left of house Stark.”

“I am heir to Casterly Rock,” Cersei reminds him. “Our second son would be sent here as a young boy to be fostered by my father and taught to be a lord of the Westerlands. He will not be able to stay in the North with us.”

Ned’s eyes shine when he kisses her forehead, sweetly. “My love,” he says. “We shall pass that when it comes.”

“Then yes,” she says. “I will be your wife.”

 

* * *

 

When her husband returns to war, her father and uncles ride with him. Ned holds her close at the gate, ignoring Ser Addam’s glares and her uncle Gerion’s guffaws.

“If you are with child,” Ned begins, his voice unsure. “A boy—please name him Robb.”

“Not Brandon?” Cersei asks, surprised.

Ned’s eyes close against the wind. “Not Brandon, it’s too soon for that. Benjen and Lyanna…they wouldn’t be able to…” he trails off. “Maybe the next one?” he suggests.

“And a girl?” Cersei teases, trying to lift his mood. “What shall her name be?”

“Arya?” Ned suggests, with a flippant tone meant to show her that he hasn’t thought very much about it, but she can see that he has. “Or Sansa, or…” he trails off again, voice hesitant. “Joanna?”

Cersei’s heart swells. “We shall see if I am even with child, my lord husband. Go win that war for your sister, and come back to me.”

 _Alive_ , she wants to add, but doesn’t. That’s implied.

When Ned is gone, the dark mood descends on Cersei again, but this time she’s working towards something, not just working to forget. She fortifies the keep. She checks the grain stores, reads the ravens that Grand Maester Pycell sends to her father. This time, Cersei is busy for the right reasons, and she wants everything to be perfect for her father and husband when they come home victorious.

She’s worked herself so hard that she misses when her moon blood doesn’t arrive. It’s near two moons that pass before Cersei realizes she’s not bled. She rushes to the maester with the most dignity she can muster, and nearly blurts it out, “I think I’m with child,” she says carefully, once she’s collected herself. “I’d like to be sure.”

He confirms it, and tells her she’d best wait another moon before sending word to the rebel encampment, just to be sure.

“This early on, it’s easy to lose a babe,” he warns her, “especially when one works so hard as you do.”

She reluctantly allows her aunt Genna to take on some of her own duties.

When the next moon passes, and Cersei is three moons gone, she pens two letters, one for her father and one for Ned. To Ned she writes:

_Dearest Ned,_

_I’ve the best of news for you, which will reach your ears soon, I hope. Our nights together have proven fruitful. Your seed has quickened. You are to be a father, and I, a mother. Next time we meet, there will have been another Stark born to the world._

_I hope to see you soon, Ned. It’s lonely without you and my uncles here. I miss you. I miss your smile. Bring that smile home to me, Ned. I’m mighty fond of the man who wears it._

_Good luck in your battles,_

_Cersei Stark_

She sends off the messenger with the warning to make good time and be safe. She is a fretful mess inside for nearly two moons, wondering if word has reached Ned’s ears, when the messenger comes back. Inside his satchel are a number of papers, documenting their battles and efforts to battle the King, but Cersei will read that later. She grabs at the paper Ned has sent her, and nearly tears it open.

_My lovely Cersei,_

_As I write, we prepare for battle, so I apologize, with all my heart, for the shortness of this letter. I hope you are well. I hope the babe is well. You cannot know the joy I felt when I read your letter. I miss being able to turn around and speak to you whenever I wish. When I get back, you and I will lock ourselves into your chambers, and not leave until we have talked so much we can say no more._

_Be healthy,_

_Eddard Stark_

At the end of his letter is a brief missive in her father’s hand. _I am proud of you,_ it says. _You do our house proud, Cersei. I wish you an easy birth._

She is nearly in tears when she reads those words, and curses herself for it. “Lions,” she tells herself, “do not have time to cry.” She draws strength from those words, though, and reads them many times in the nights to come.

Those nights get warmer, gradually, as the true spring comes upon the realm. Cersei is glad for it; stuck in the Rock during the depth of winter, she has missed the breeze of spring.

Jeyne, of all people, becomes someone Cersei comes to count on. Less inclined to her flights of fancy since the war began, Jeyne runs Cersei’s messages throughout the keep, warms her bed at night, even now when the nights have begun to thaw. It is Jeyne who is next to Cersei the first time the babe kicks, and she is the first to see Cersei’s expression of wonder. It is Jeyne who fetches the pot when Cersei is ill in the mornings. Cersei remembers how awfully she and Melara had treated Jeyne when they were all still children, before Melara had fallen in the well. They’d tittered behind Jeyne’s back, calling her fat, and Lady Piggy. It was true, Jeyne was no beauty. But Cersei’s husband was no Rhaegar Targaryen neither, and she loved him for it.

“Twins,” the maester says, when he checks her, a few nights before she is due to give birth. Her belly has swelled up to the size of a ship, she’ll complain to anyone who will hear her. “There are twins in your belly, my lady.”

Her aunt Genna, at Cersei’s side on the bed, freezes. “Twins, you say?” she whispers. “You’re sure, maester.”

“What?” Cersei asks. “Aunt Genna, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, child. I’m just so happy for you. Twins means double the joy, you know.”

But Genna doesn’t sound very joyful.

The battlefield is where men wage their wars. Cersei has found that women wage a very different kind of war, but one that is no less important. Women hold their husband’s keeps for them in time of war. Women live with uncertainty. And most of all, a woman’s greatest battle is in the birthing room.

Cersei finds this out soon.

The first child passes through quickly. It is a girl, and in the break between deliveries, Cersei smothers her disappointment to find that her daughter has her hair, and her father’s nose in miniature. “Joanna,” she declares before it is time again to push out another babe. This one takes hours, and Cersei can barely see through the haze of red. Dimly, she finds out that her aunt Genna has swooned. Jeyne caught her and escorted her from the room. When Jeyne returns, her face is troubled, but she takes Cersei’s hand and tells her “You can do this, my lady. You will survive this.”

Cersei feels a gush of emotion between breaths, and nods her head. Jeyne pushes sweaty locks of hair from her face. “I will survive this,” Cersei says. For the first time, she tells Jeyne, “I am a lion of the rock.”

Jeyne nods solemnly.

 _Carrying the wolves of winter_ , Cersei’s thought rises, unbidden. She has no more breath to speak, though.

She cannot remember giving birth to her son, only Jeyne’s worried face hovering over hers.

In the hours Lady Cersei Stark spends between life and death, she no longer feels a hole in her heart. She is a child, and there is a boy next to her, who looks exactly like her. _I’m the hole,_ he seems to tell her. _I’m what’s missing._

There was a child-sized hole in Cersei Lannister’s heart, but when Cersei Stark wakes up and her children are brought to her, she finds that the hole is smaller than it was.

 _Robb and Joanna Stark,_ she writes to Ned triumphantly. _Robb has your look, and Joanna has mine. Come back soon, my love. Your children await your arrival._

After her trouble in the birthing room, the maester insists that Cersei stay in her chambers. She agrees, if only to spend more time with her children. She reads to them for hours, even though they can’t possibly understand anything she says, and stares at them endlessly, wishing that she had no need for sleep so she could stare at them some more. Soon, the woman’s war calls to Cersei, and she is nothing if not a warrior.

When the children are four moons old, a raven comes from King’s Landing.

 _Aerys Targaryen is dead_ , it announces. _Slain by Elia Martell when he tried to burn the capitol. She has thrown down her arms and surrendered to the forces of Lord Stark and his Northmen._

In a short missive sent a day later, her father writes that Robert is king and holds King’s Landing. Ned has gone to find his sister in Dorne.

 _Why would she be in Dorne?_ Cersei wonders. Why had Rhaegar hidden her away there? Why not Dragonstone, with his mother Queen Rhaella?

She wants to write to Ned, needs to find out what is happening, but she doesn’t even know where in Dorne he is. Not for the first time, Cersei feels her frustration growing, as well as her fear. _What if Lyanna is dead?_ She wonders. Worse, what if Lyanna had left with Rhaegar of her own free will. They’d fought a war to get her back. What if she hadn’t wanted to come home?

Cersei remembered Lyanna’s anger after Rhaegar crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, though. That did not seem like the face of a happy girl. Cersei banished her unkind thoughts about her good-sister. They could wait.

 

* * *

 

Ned comes back to her with death on his shoulders. His sister Lyanna’s body is being transported to Winterfell, but he’s come for her.

“My love,” she whispers, when he is within reach. Half the household was watching, so she could hardly jump into his arms like she wanted. “Your children, Robb and Joanna.”

One by one, she watches the shadows leave her husband’s face until a small smile graced his lips. “Cersei,” he intones reverently, “they’re beautiful.”

His tone is much the same as the tone he’d used to first tell her she was beautiful, under the weirwood at Harrenhall. Cersei knows how he felt now.

“Cersei,” he whispers, once they have gone inside and his men have dispersed. “I have dishonored you. I—”

She silences him with a look. “So I’ve heard. Tell me, Ned. Is the bastard Brandon’s? Or Lyanna’s by Rhaegar?” her voice is quiet, and she shifts Joanna in her arms while Ned holds Robb.

“Mine,” he says stubbornly, but her husband has suddenly lost the ability to lie to her. His eyes won’t meet hers. Ned is honorable enough that he would look at her when he tells her a hard truth.

“Lyanna’s, then,” Cersei says, quite cheered. “If Robert knew, he’d kill the babe, like he’s done with Elia’s children.”

Ned’s eyes are shadowed. “The Mountain that Rides. He killed them. Elia came to us under a banner of _peace_ -“

“But you’re afraid for the child,” Cersei finishes. “I keep your secrets, my lord. One day, you will keep mine.”

Ned is so quiet that Cersei has to reach over to him and kiss him to make sure he’s here with her. She draws him in deep, inhaling the smoky smell of campfires, the earthy smell of the dirt roads he’s camped on. Much has changed between them in the year they’ve been apart.

“I believe,” she whispers, “in one of your letters you wrote about getting to know each other once more, and not leaving my bedchambers until we both lost our ability to speak. Am I remembering incorrectly?”

Ned swallows. “No.”

“Your sister is dead,” Cersei says, and hands Joanna to Jeyne, and then Robb to his wetnurse. “Your brother is dead. Your father is dead. But you and I are alive, Ned.” She grabs onto his arms. “Sometimes we must remind ourselves of that, lest we fall into the waiting arms of those who left us behind.”

Ned meets her eyes. There’s so much there, Cersei thinks. So much they need to tell one another. They will have time.

Gods willing, they will have lots of time.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review. I love hearing people's thoughts!


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